


Found Voice

by MapleCFreter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Episode 26 spoilers, Friendship, Gen, Growth, Muteness, Pre-Stream (Critical Role), Slight Spoilers for Episode 30, The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities - Freeform, slight backstory speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleCFreter/pseuds/MapleCFreter
Summary: When Yasha joined the carnival, Molly still wasn’t speaking. She watched as a tiefling without an identity or a voice grew to become Mollymauk Tealeaf, her best friend.They travelled across Wildmount, fighting side by side, and learning about the world together. But nothing lasts forever.





	Found Voice

**Author's Note:**

> I messed with the timeline a bit to tell the story I wanted to tell. Not that it was really set in stone in the first place.

 

When Yasha had first joined the carnival, she had not believed it would be permanent. She remembered the day well. It had been grey and humid, with an unusual chill in the air. It was not often like this in these southern lands. It reminded her of home, which put Yasha in an odd mood. She’d been hungry, and tired, and desperately in need of work. Helping to move some heavy things onto a cart had seemed like any easy way to make some money. She had not expected it to end in an invitation. Like most beginnings were, this one was well disguised.

Despite the massive tent, the carnival was surprisingly short staffed. They were lacking in personal, and even more so on muscle. She’d found herself working alongside a half-orc and a purple tiefling. Neither were the chatty sort, which came as a great relief to Yasha. The half-orc, Bo, made the occasional bit of polite conversation, while the tiefling hadn’t said a word to her. Still, she felt him staring. His eyes were red, uniform bloody pools without pupil or iris.

Yasha didn’t know how to deal with social interactions at the best of times, but his silent staring combined with the dreary weather left her on edge. In moments of rest, as others packed the boxes she would be carrying, she found herself staring back. What else was she supposed to do? He was dressed in a light blue cloak, extensively embroidered to look like the night sky. It was crudely sown, like someone had made it out of a blanket, or an old tent. He hid within it, face half in shadow.

The first time Yasha addressed him directly, she was faced with the task of carrying one of the massive tentpoles.

“Can you help me with this?”

He cocked his head slightly to the side. Though wordless, his question was clear to her. After all, she was also the type to reserve words for when they were necessary.

“Yeah. You.”

He nodded, cracking a slight smile. Pointed canines peaked out over his lip. Working in coordinated silence, the pair loaded the folded tube of metal onto the largest of the carts.

“What’s your name?” Yasha asked, as he jumped down to stand beside her. It was gruff and maybe a little more demanding than she’d intended. After all, when she met new people, she usually wasn’t the one asking.

He smiled at her. It was hesitant, polite, if not a little awkward. Still, he remained silent. They stood close enough together she got her first good look under his hood, as he was only a little shorter than she was. His hair was short, and a darker shade of purple than his skin. It was just barely long enough to begin to curl. His horns were those of a ram, large enough so that the hood sat strange and boxlike. There were not many tieflings were Yasha was from, and the ones she had seen since she’d begun to travel had not looked like this. There was something alien about him. Was it true they had the blood of fiends running through their veins, Yasha couldn’t help but wonder.

“I’m Yasha,” she offered.

She was really starting to regret attempting conversation. It really wasn’t her area of expertise. He opened his mouth, drew in air like one did before they formed words. Then, he froze, like something had lodged itself in his throat. Yasha was not the best at reading emotions, but she recognized panic when she saw it. It was animalistic and universal, the simplest of all of them. It crossed his face like a wave, but was gone just as quickly. Then, with an apologetic nod of the head, the tiefling turned and walked away.

Confusion mixed with a little anger welled up in Yasha. Would social interaction always be beyond her? Maybe that was just something she would have to accept.

“Mollymauk doesn’t really talk,” said Bo, dabbing some sweat from his face with a rag, “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“Oh.” The word hung lamely in the air. Yasha felt like an idiot. In retrospect, maybe it should have been obvious.

“I think he likes you,” the half-orc said. “Though… he’s the sort who’ll like anyone who’ll give him a chance, far as I can tell.”

“If he does not speak, how do you know his name?”

Yasha watched Mollymauk intently, as he helped a pair of halfling woman carry a large chest. He looked happy, radiating a sort of warm joy Yasha was not used to. It sat in stark contrast to his dangerous appearance.

“Well,” Bo shuffled awkwardly, “I suppose we sort of gave it to him. Since it seemed like he was sticking around, it would have been inconvenient for him not to have one. When he first arrived we were just throwing things out there, joking around, guessing… Gustav said Mollymauk Tealeaf and he seemed to like it so…”

“Then perhaps it is his name.”

“Maybe.” Bo shrugged. “At first he kept saying MT, or empty, no one was really sure. That was where it came from. It’s not important. He stopped saying it, and hasn’t really said anything since. Most people here have taken to calling him Molly.”

Yasha wasn’t completely sure why she accepted the invitation to go with them. It might have been because this was a place for outcasts and misfits. After all, if they could ignore a story as strange as Molly’s perhaps they could ignore hers as well. It might have been because they were all going in the same direction; that direction being nowhere in particular. But Yasha stayed, settling into the circus family in her own awkward way.

It had been Molly who had made her first realize there might be a place here for one such as her, and it was to Molly she found herself gravitating. For someone who did not talk, Yasha found him easier to understand than a lot of other people. And he seemed to understand her too; her clipped sentences and abrupt mannerisms. It came as a relief, after struggling to communicate for so long. He was so present, always experiencing the moment with intensity, that being around him it was difficult to dwell on the past.

Slowly but surely, she grew comfortable with the others. Hovering in Molly’s shadow and watching how he interacted with them she began to understand that this was a family or sorts. It was all new to Yasha, an unfamiliar and frightening thing. Toya seemed to draw comfort from Molly in much the same way she did, having arrived not long ago herself. Molly loved it when she sang, and because they were always together, Yasha got to hear it too, the scared little dwarf still unwilling to perform in front of a large crowd. Then there was Gustav and the genuine concern he seemed to hold for those under his employ. It was almost fatherly at times, at least towards Mollymauk. 

Yasha was getting used to having someone at her side; meals had in silent but pleasant company, a warm body watching her back as they stood guard over their caravan on dark and winding backroads. It took only a few weeks for Yasha to understand him better than some of the others, offering a few words of translation on occasion, if it was clear his desires were being overlooked. But when storm clouds hung low and thunder rumbled on the horizon, Yasha was reminded that this was not forever.

Having grown up around violence, Yasha had an excellent eye for what made a good fighter. She knew how to recognize skill and training. At some point, Molly had acquired a pair of swords. They were dull and a bit rusty, clearly meant for performance rather than violence. Still, the way Molly moved with them spoke of muscle memory.

“You should sharpen them,” Yasha said, as she watched Molly spin them absentmindedly. “I feel like you’d be good in a fight.”

Molly raised a questioning eyebrow. Then, he tried to juggle them, managing exactly one full rotation before they went crashing to the ground.

Yasha snorted. “I do not take back what I said. We should spar sometime. I’d love to see what you can do.”

Molly took a dramatic step backwards, but Yasha knew he wasn’t really afraid. It was nice, knowing someone wasn’t afraid of her.

It was not long after this, on a particularly winding backroad near the edge of the empire, that they were attacked by bandits. Yasha knew this was nothing new for the circus, and this group looked desperate, thin, and poorly armed. Still, there were a lot of them, and out here anything could be a death sentence. While the members of the carnival knew how to look after themselves, they were not warriors. She’d sharpened the swords for Molly a few days previous, and she was glad for it, because while Yasha had been taken on by the carnival to be the muscle, this was not a fight she could have won alone.

For Yasha, battle was a blur. It was a soup of adrenaline and animal instinct that, like a good night drinking, could only be partially remembered in its aftermath. But one moment stuck out to her, frozen in her memory like a painting. Molly, teeth bared and holding two men at bay at the point of his sword, drew the other across the back of his neck like he’d done it a thousand times. As soon as his blood hit the blade it erupted into a forest of ice crystals. Yasha knew magic when she saw it. She was not an expert, in fact, regarding it with a fearful distrust, but she knew this was a magic unlike any she had ever seen. This was, perhaps, a magic she could understand, one forged in blood.

In the aftermath, as they tended to their wounds, Yasha turned to him and asked. “So… what was that? That you did out there? … with the ice.”

He shrugged, then turned to polish his swords. He worked at them obsessively with a scrap of cloth, as if he had forgotten she was there. Yasha did not ask again.

The carnival moved in a lazy serpentine way, but still they got where they were going. Much to her discomfort, they were currently on a path that would take them just a stone’s throw from her homeland. No one knew this, of course, not even Molly. As restless as the increasing proximity made her, Yasha wasn’t ready to leave, not yet. So, she distracted herself as well as she could. Molly was good for that.

For someone who did not speak, he could be so terribly loud sometimes. He’d managed to find himself a coat that was such an unruly mixture of colours she was almost afraid to look at it. Molly liked to collect pretty things. It was a habit he’d picked up rather recently, but his collection of jewelry was already impressive. He had managed to convey to Ornna his desire for a piercing, and now a metal hook stuck through his horn, supporting a trail of beads. Molly was finding himself so quickly, sometimes Yasha worried that she wasn’t looking hard enough. Sometimes she still felt much more like a shell than a person.

Yasha was sitting some distance away from the camp one night, staring up at the stars and thinking. Molly approached her, beads jingling a little bit, and some new bounty clutched to his chest. She liked it when he showed her the things he’d found. Even if they meant nothing to her, she loved the excitement in his eyes. He was a little like a cat dropping a kill at her feet, both predatory and soft. He plopped down onto the grass beside her, setting down his package, which was wrapped in a piece of cloth. Whether he had bought or stolen the things he collected depended on the day. Though he wasn’t much of a thief, and as Yasha had learned, if he was going to steal it was probably from somebody who deserved it.

“What did you get?” she asked him.

First, from the bundle, he drew a deck of cards. They were not playing cards, slim and beautifully painted, the backs encrusted with gold leaf. He shuffled them expertly then drew three, placing them on the ground between them, face up. Yasha had not seen much art in her life, but these were certainly lovely to look at. One depicted a gravesite under the moon, beautiful and sombre. The second showed a twisting green serpent, tangled in itself. The third was flowers, several of different kinds and a multitude of colours.

“These are beautiful,” Yasha whispered, reaching out to touch them. Her finger traced the stems.

Molly gathered them up, shuffling them into the deck and sliding it into his pocket. Then he removed something else from the bundle. It was an unmarked book with a sturdy leather cover. As he placed it in her hands, she soon realized that it was a blank journal.

“I’m not really the writing type,” said Yasha, flipping uselessly through the pages. “I don’t really have the words… you know?”

Of course, Molly knew. He flashed her that same toothy smile he had the first day they’d met, then he produced something from inside his coat with the flourish of a stage magician. It was a small bouquet of wildflowers. No one was the same, not quite as varied and colourful as the ones on the card, but close enough. She’d seen them all at one point or another, growing on the side of the road. That was one of Yasha’s favourite things about travelling. Everywhere had its own unique flowers. Some were everywhere, like old friends, but there was always one she’d never seen before. She’d taken to pointing them out to him. It was often the only thing that broke their silence for miles, as they rode perched side-by-side on the cart.

Molly placed them on the open page of the journal, and she realized that must have been exactly what he’d been thinking of. Yasha separated them, with careful fingers tucking each into its own page.

“I understand now. Thank you, Molly. I’ll use your gift to record a story the best I can. It’ll just be the kind written in peddles instead of letters.”

In the days that followed, Yasha began to notice Molly humming to himself. It was always so quiet she at first thought she was imagining things. It was usually a song Toya had sung that day, like an echo. Yasha had known he was capable of making sound, of course. Whether it was a grunt of exertion or hiss of pain or even, on occasion, an expressive noise of agreement or disapproval, it had always been clear that the problem did not lie with Molly’s biology. Still, this was new. These were not single sounds, but many notes strung together. As Yasha watched, it was like Molly was building himself piece by piece: cards, and colours, and jangling beads. She wondered if perhaps he would build himself a voice next.

The closer they got to Xhorhas, the thicker the air felt. Yasha had to work not to snap at those around her, to react with hostility in situations that did not call for it. She didn’t want to scare them away, not these people.

But one night a storm rolled in. Torrential rains lashed the earth and winds howled like screaming voices. Yasha slept fitfully in the tent she shared with Molly, Bo, and The Knot Sisters. Yasha’s dreams were never peaceful, but that night she was consumed by a nightmare more terrible than any she’d had in quite some time. And despite her best efforts, she got lost in it. She was dragged back to a time when she’d been powerless. She found herself back in the hell she’d thought she’d left behind.

One by one, Mona, Yuri, Bo, and Molly came to consciousness to the sounds of pain and anger coming from Yasha’s sleeping form. She’d thrown her bedding to the ground. She was half sitting, propped up on her elbow. Hair hung down into her face and she was breathing heavily. Both Bo and Molly moved towards her cautiously.

“Yasha?” Bo called.

Turned away from them, Yasha got mechanically to her feet. Bo reached her first, reaching a hand out tentatively.

“Are you alright?”

She roared. It was heavy with anger and pain, seeming to shake the ground itself. She thrashed out blindly, a fist connecting with Bo’s stomach and knocking him backwards. Molly caught him before he could hit the ground, pulling the half-orc away. It was clear now, for all those watching, that Yasha was still asleep. Caught in the grips of some nightmare, she looked very much like a cornered animal. They kept a healthy distance while Yuri slipped out into the storm, presumably to seek help.

“Don’t touch me!”

With another scream, Yasha sunk to her knees. Fingers wound their way into her already matted hair as she cradled her head in her hands. Then, the air got colder, and from her back unfurled two massive, skeletal wings. In the entrance to the tent, Ornna yelped fearfully. Desmond entered after her, then finally Gustav, as Yasha knelt in the centre of the room, shaking.

As she rose to her feet, yelling and hurling her travelling chest across the room to shatter into pieces, the members of The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities found themselves questioning what monster they’d invited into their midst.

“Molly…” Gustav warned.

The tiefling had taken a few steps forward, gesturing from the others to stay back. As he crossed some invisible threshold, Yasha’s dichromatic eyes locked onto him. She snarled and lunged at him, but Molly was fast, managing to dodge to the side.

“I’ll kill you for this,” she spat, her voice somehow cold and flat, even through her rage. “I’ll kill you all.”

Her attention turned to the spectators, and the remaining Knot Sister darted for the door. Smoothly, Molly stepped in front of her, body language speaking of placation, of surrender. He kept her attention focused on him as best as he could, and the others watched helplessly, none daring to step in the path of this creature with wings like a skeletal bat and eyes like the sockets of a skull.

Yasha was shaking, clutching at her head. Muttered words could be heard between moments of violence.

“Please…”

A fist that collided with Molly’s chest as he was just a bit too slow to move away.

“…kill you for this.”

Another punch barely dodged.

Visible only to Molly, a single tear ran down her cheek. There was anger, yes, but also desperation and fear.

_“Yasha?”_

As quiet as it was, the word hung in the air. At first the others in the tent weren’t sure what they had heard, only that Yasha had stopped. She was frozen, staring through Molly like she was gazing into the astral sea. The voice had been hoarse, as was to be expected. It was pleasant, deep with a vague accent not unlike Gustav’s, as rough as it was.

“Yasha?” Molly repeated, tentative.

It may have been the shock that cut through Yasha’s subconscious to the kernel of self still awake. Her muscles relaxed, though the shaking continued.

It had moved to her voice as well, as she asked, “Molly? You…? Did you just talk?”

A huge grin spread across his features. Then, after a few seconds of struggle, he managed, “I think so. Yasha… are—are you alright?”

He reached for her then, and she did not pull away. He pulled her into a tight hug, and after a few moments she was hugging back. Eventually, Yasha stopped shaking and her breathing equalized. The nightmare was banished back to the past where it belonged.

This had been the beginning of the end. It turned out that, now that the dam had been broken, Mollymauk Tealeaf had quite a lot to say. There were moments in the weeks that followed where he would lapse back into silence, but as he admitted to Yasha much later, he had not spoken for so long out of fear of whose voice would come out. Now that he knew it was his own, there was no reason to keep silent.

Yasha certainly felt shame and self-loathing for the night she’d lost control, but it was lessened slightly by the joy of having helped Molly find his voice. Though, truly, they had been helping each other find their voices long before that night. Molly wrote stories with his body, with tattoos and clothes, and movements. Yasha wrote hers in pressed flowers between journal pages. Whether it was sharpening swords or gifting a bouquet, they had been helping each other speak since the moment they’d met.

~~~

~~

~  
When it was all over.

All of it.

The storm had finally receded to a gentle drizzle. The lightning had stopped lighting up the sky, and the thunder had run out of voice with which to scream. Yasha finally returned to that place on the edge of The Glory Run Road, barely enough anger left in her to keep her moving.

The snow had mostly melted. What remained was dirty slush. Everything was mud, coating her boots, and her pants as she fell to her knees in front of the grave. It had not been that long since she had last been here, but somehow the place had been transformed. The colourful coat still hung as a marker, proud if not a little soggy, but below it, the ground had erupted. Wildflowers and mushrooms made a carpet, vibrant despite the cold.

“Molly?” she whispered.

Of course, there was no answer, as he had lost his voice again. Though she had not lost hers. Yasha chose several of the most beautiful flowers, picking them carefully and laying them between the pages of her journal. She hugged the book to her chest and tried to remember what he felt like.

The story went on.

 


End file.
